Blue
by Reminscees
Summary: "I like setting things on fire," Keiji said, "and industrial estates." Keiji met Koutarou twice in his life, and the second time was permanent.


_**BLUE**_

Akaashi Keiji saw most of his life as a series of events, all of which were disconnected from one another, and he found that this was the only way he could truly cope with the crushing sensation of his future approaching him, sneaking up behind him in the shadows, as though stabbing him from behind, very slowly, with an incredibly inefficient weapon. He was a third year by now, and little had changed— he still hung out with Tooru and Tetsuro and the others, and he liked the way they made him feel, as though he had a purpose, and as though he belonged somewhere, no longer swimming around in an empty swimming pool, although Tooru made him feel like he was drowning, sometimes, when he trailed his fingers up Keiji's thighs and placed his lips to his neck.

Tooru did that a lot. Keiji couldn't really remember the first time it happened, though, so it couldn't have been that good. It was at Tadashi's birthday party, and it was raining outside and it was late in the night and Tadashi was long, _long_ gone, passed out and resting his head in Tetsuro's lap, who in turn was lying against that hideous brown sofa Tadashi owned, and Tetsuro had his arm wrapped around Kenma as he tried to light a cigarette, the lighter clicking loudly over Tadashi's soft snores, though it didn't work, the gas was empty. Tetsuro dug into his jeans pocket to take out his own and light it for him. His hand was shaking a little, though, so it took a couple of attempts, and Kenma waited for him, staring at him.

Keiji never forgot the look on his face— it was as though he had recognised an old friend who he lost years ago, and thought he was dead, and was now searching him with inept concentration, studying him as though he were an artefact in a museum.

Keiji loved museums, he thought, then. The best damn thing about them was that nothing ever changed— everything stayed right where it was.

Keiji grinned as he saw Kenma let his head fall on Tetsuro's shoulder, and Tetsuro smiled, too, unbelievably softly and gently and it seemed sacred.

The moment was temporary and fragile, and shattered by Tooru trailing his fingers up Keiji's thighs and placing his lips to his neck. Keiji turned his head, and Tooru looked up at him. His eyes were glossy and his breath smelt of alcohol, and Keiji could see his reflection in Tooru's dark pupils, entirely alien.

Keiji swallowed thickly, breath coming to a halt as he grabbed Tooru's face, fingers pressing into his jaw and neck, and pulled him towards him, closer, even closer, until—

Tooru's lips were warm, and there was too much tongue and teeth, and it was rough. Keiji was sure he tasted just as bitter as Tooru did, of cigarettes and cheap liquor and warm beer. Tooru moved fast, hands groping into every inch of Keiji's body, nails leaving marks as he slid his palms under his shirt and up Keiji's back, along his sides, marks that would last for weeks, later, all over his neck and shoulders, too, which had once been a pure, clean-cut sleet of marble.

Keiji wondered whether it was a distraction, or merely the fact that if Tooru believed something was his, he took it.

That happened half a year ago— each instance disconnect from the next.

Eventually, it all connected.

Keiji's life was no longer a clean-cut series of events, and it all began that one late evening, in the city— the blurring of lines, smudging of colours—

The sun was setting, and Tetsuro tilted his head back, hands in the pockets of his tight, black leather jacket, as though he wanted to drink the night sky. Keiji raised his fingers to lit a cigarette, balanced between his lips, and frowned when his lighter did not spark the way it usually did. Tetsuro reached out towards him, and his own Zippo gleamed and reflected the flame as the bottom of Keiji's cigarette turned red, then dimmed down to orange, and, a while later, grey.

"Do you think Tooru fell down a manhole?" Tetsuro mumbled as Keiji hoisted himself up to sit atop the bins resting against the wall of the alley, "He's taking ages."

Keiji shrugged, and watched the way Tetsuro's jacket moved in the darkness, "How should I know?"

Tetsuro grinned and lit a cigarette. Keiji focused his gaze on the packet between his own fingers, resting in his lap.

"You know what I mean—"

"No," Keiji interrupted.

Tetsuro sighed lightly.

"Fine," he said, "Damn, you've got issues, kid."

Keiji twitched slightly.

Tetsuro stared down at his slim shoulders, and at his thin, pale, almost transparent fingers in the moonlight. It smelt like rubbish. Keiji didn't belong here, he thought— Keiji deserved better. Better than Tooru fucking around with him, better than sitting on top of bins with him—

"Hey," Keiji said softly, "Why are you staring at me?"

Tetsuro bit his lip.

"I was debating whether or not I should apologise," he admitted, "I don't want— I mean, I just meant—"

"Yeah," Keiji replied, "I know what you meant. You're right, though," He took a drag of his cigarette, and watched the smoke fly up into the depth of the night sky, "I do, but it's alright—"

"It's not." Tetsuro frowned.

Keiji turned his head and looked at him, really looked at him, and Tetsuro felt his skin crawl under the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were sharp, piercing every pore of Tetsuro's body, every inch of his soul.

"Why do you say that?" Keiji said, voice fragile.

Tetsuro licked his lips.

"It's the truth," he said, "I'm not a liar, Keiji."

Keiji closed his eyes, and Tetsuro watched him, curiously, as he took a breath, then opened them again, and shifted himself closer towards Tetsuro.

"I know," Keiji murmured, carefully, "You're so damn _honest_. I trust you, Tetsuro— I trust you too much, you'll ruin me," he trailed a finger across his cheek, down his jaw, and Tetsuro stared at him, "and I love it."

He sighed.

" _God_ ," Tetsuro groaned, low and rough, "I know you're pretty gay, and I'm _really_ gay— but why is it you make everyone slightly _gayer_ for you?"

Keiji grinned, canines flashing in the dark, and Tetsuro cackled wildly.

A moment later, two figures approached. The look Tooru gave Keiji as he stepped into the alley felt as though someone had smashed glass over Keiji's head— crystalline, fragile, temporary, though sharp, intense, painful, even. It hurt to look at him.

"Hey," Tetsuro said, motioning to the stranger, "Tooru." He nodded towards him, "Who's this, then?"

"Ah," Tooru laughed, "This is Hajime...," He trailed off, head turning towards him.

"Iwaizumi Hajime." He stuttered.

"Nice," He hissed, "Kuroo Tetsuro."

Keiji frowned. The guy was his age, and he seemed as though he were a nice, ordinary kid, boring even. The kind of guy who you're friends with in school, though not outside of class— the guy you think you know everything about, though in reality, absolutely nothing. The way he looked at Tooru was horrifyingly endearing, it was innocent and pure, and Tooru grinned at Keiji as he mustered them both.

"Ah," Tetsuro said, tilting his head back, "Where d'you know him from?"

"He's my neighbour," Tooru said, "Come on, give me a cigarette."

"Get your own," Tetsuro laughed, and lifted himself up to sit on top of the bin perched against the wall, slinging his arm around Keiji, and Keiji smiled, eyes squinting at Tooru as he extracted the box out of Tetsuro's hands, gently and delicately as though he were a child, and held it out towards Tooru.

"Thanks, man," Tooru laughed, "Hajime, this is Akaashi," He gestured, "Akaashi, Hajime."

Keiji frowned, and was ever thankful he didn't say that his name was Keiji.

Tooru lit the cigarette, and Hajime watched him, carefully.

"Want one?" Keiji eventually asked, filling the silence. He didn't know what else to ask, really, and his voice was rough, though his tone was polite.

"Yeah," Hajime exhaled, "Thanks." Keiji wondered if he made him nervous, or whether he was just like that.

Tooru leaped up onto the bin, sliding next to Keiji and trailing his fingers along his thigh, up to his hip, then down to his knee again. Keiji fluttered his eyes shut, and exhaled smoke as he shifted in Tetsuro's arms. The nicotine hit him now— he was calm, and felt truly alive and in the present, he always did with Tooru, Tooru made him feel as though he had a purpose, albeit a damn shitty one.

Tooru leaned his head down towards him.

"Hey," he muttered into his ear, breath hot, "Are your parents home tonight?"

Keiji let his eyes fall shut, slowly.

"No," he replied, cautiously, "Do you want to come over?"

Tooru grinned. "Yeah," he said, "I do, babe— I missed you, I hardly have seen you this past week."

"Don't be so melodramatic, Tooru," Keiji breathed.

"I can't help it," Tooru replied, voice hushed, "You're too good to be good for me, I'm addicted— you've been cooped up in the music room practicing day and night. Why don't you show me what those pretty little fingers can do later?"

"Yeah," Keiji nodded, " _God_ , yeah."

Tooru retracted and smiled, resting his head back against the brick.

Tetsuro snorted in the silence.

"Hey, kid," Tetsuro said, and Keiji saw Hajime's eyebrows twitch in annoyance, "So what kind of music do you listen to?"

Hajime licked his lips and toyed with his cigarette, as though he were a bug squirming under a microscope, trapped in the Petri dish which was Tooru. Keiji grinned wickedly.

"Your neighbour's looking a little ill," Keiji whispered towards Tooru, "We're freaking him out, probably."

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Tooru whispered, and laid his head in the crook of Keiji's neck, hair soft, and Keiji felt want boiling deep, deep inside him as Tooru raised a hand to trail his fingers along Keiji's neck, down the pale skin. Keiji licked his lips.

"He's completely clueless— so _innocent_."

"Are you saying I'm tainted?"

Tooru laughed, hollowly.

"Are you _jealous_?" he breathed.

"Should I be?" Keiji replied, annoyance growing. The necessity of Tooru to have constant conversation always bothered him. It felt as though he were hiding, covering his insecurities with mountains of small talk and fake laughter. It felt silly— Keiji knew why he was doing this and why Tooru was, and Tooru knew, too.

Tooru laughed, dryly— _obviously_. It was a protective shield, a wall of defense, built to hide and to never be exposed.

"No," he said, "I'm _all_ yours, Keiji— no one else gets to do what you do to me,"

"Yeah?" Keiji replied, voice low and rough, almost a moan— maybe that was his wall, he thought, carefully built up, and never real, always artificial, so that he'd always have the upper hand, and never be more vulnerable than Tooru was, even while fucking around underneath covers or in the back of a movie theatre or, in one of Keiji's lowest moments, in the bathroom of a Burger King at 4 a.m. It was never real, for Keiji. Pretending none of this was real, and that none of this _mattered_ , truly, made it hurt less when Keiji realised that Tooru was just was empty as he was, and just was artificial, too, with his perfectly symmetrical smiles and neatly filed nails.

Keiji still always had the upper hand, though, in their game— Tooru always, _always_ came first.

Keiji smirked down at the mop of brown hair rested on top of his shoulders, spread along his chest. He took a drag of his cigarette.

"Uh huh," Tooru replied, and later, Keiji took him home, later, _of course_ he did.

Keiji couldn't remember the first time they did this, _really_ did this, not just kissing, he thought, as Tooru pushed him into the soft material of his bed.

Keiji stared up at his ceiling, at the faint stains of where fifteen identical small plastic glow-in-the-dark stars used to hang. He felt a strange urge to stick some up again, as Tooru trailed is fingers along Keiji's thighs, perhaps to have something to look up into when they were doing this instead of Tooru's empty, hollow dark eyes, or maybe he wanted something to grab onto, the last remains of childhood and innocence and a simpler past long, long gone—

"Ah, fuck," Tooru hissed, " _Shit_."

He was close.

Keiji moaned emptily. He thought he sounded as though he were straight from an eighties porno, though it seemed to do the trick.

Tooru came first— _of course_ he did.

As usual, Tooru came over all over Keiji's legs and his shoulders shook a little, and then he gave Keiji a half-assed blowjob as Keiji continued to stare up at the ceiling.

Tooru spat into a tissue— he never swallowed, maybe because it was more permanent, and tissues were disposable, easy to be forgotten about.

Keiji frowned up at the stars, and it was silent, briefly. Tooru wasn't breathing as heavily as he could have, Keiji thought, and he wondered whether he was holding his breath.

Keiji felt his eyes burn, and he wondered why they did that, sometimes, when he was staring up at those damn stars.

"Hey, listen," Tooru said after a moment, "What are you going to do?"

"What do you mean?" Keiji frowned, voice low.

"I mean," Tooru laughed hollowly, "In the future— still music school?"

Keiji licked his lips.

"Yeah, I guess," he replied, "I mean, what else can I do?"

Tooru shrugged.

"What else do you _want_ to do?" he answered.

Keiji felt his teeth snag at a dry piece of skin. It hurt to pull it, yet he still removed it, regardless, and his lips burnt as Tooru shifted on his bed, restlessly.

"You don't like anything else," he said, "You don't like _any_ thing that's happening."

It made Keiji even more depressed when he said that.

"Yes, I do— sure I do," Keiji replied, "Don't say that— why the _hell_ do you say that?"

"Because you don't— you don't like any schools, you don't like a million things. You _don't_."

"I do," Keiji felt his lips sneer a little as Tooru blinked him, eyes pitch dark in the dim light of his bedroom, "That's where you're wrong— why the hell do you have to say that?"

"Because you don't—" Tooru repeated, "Name one thing."

"One thing? One thing I like?" said Keiji, "Okay."

He couldn't concentrate.

"One thing I like a lot?" he said. Tooru didn't answer, he turned his head away and seemed about a thousand miles away from Keiji, distant, in a disconnected reality.

"All right," Keiji said, though he still couldn't concentrate. The trouble was, he thought, is that the only thing he could think of were these damn nuns who collected money around his neighbourhood in beat-up straw baskets every Saturday. They'd ring at the front door, every damn Saturday, and his mother, if she were there, or the maid would open the door, and they'd never give them any money, yet they returned, regardless. Keiji liked them, especially the one with the glasses with these iron rims.

Keiji also thought of his sister, she was younger than him.

She wasn't like Keiji, at all, and he liked that about her— she was outside more than he was, while he was practicing his music in doors, she would be outside in the garden, quietly picking at a flower, pulling apart the petals, and then laying them out in front of her, looking at them with her head tilted to one side. It was a funny sight to look at, really. She was quiet, too, and polite as hell, though their parents wanted her to pursue an interest, something noble. Since Keiji was the designated creative child, they had her join sports teams, all sorts, really. She used to play baseball, and she was left-handed and she wrote poems all over the glove, about all sorts of things, so that when she was fielding and bored as hell she could read them. She's dead now.

"You can't even think of one thing?" Tooru asked, sitting up and frowning a little.

"Yes," Keiji replied, "Yes, I can."

"Well, do it, then."

"I like Shimizu," Keiji said, "I like doing other things, sitting and talking and thinking about stuff, and—"

"Shimizu's _dead_ ," Tooru said, and Keiji remembered just how much of a _dick_ he could be if you let him, "You always say that— if someone's dead and everything—"

"I _know_ she's dead," Keiji snapped, "Don't you think I know that? I can still like them, though, can't I? Just because somebody's dead doesn't mean you just stop liking them— especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that're alive and all."

Tooru frowned at him, then sighed melodramatically.

"Hey," Keiji said a moment later, when Tooru has lying face down on his bed, and Keiji shifting relentlessly under the covers, as though something was not quite, "Pass me your lighter."

Tooru hummed in agreement and reached

The fact that Tooru was nearly completely clothed, besides his jeans, he was wearing his boxers and his t-shirt, made Keiji's chest ache, and not in a good way. He felt ill, and when Tooru's fingers briefly touched his outstretched palm and dropped his lighter in it, Keiji was worried he would vomit, there and now, fucking _projectile vomit_ all over Tooru's gross feet and—

"Thanks," Keiji chocked, and flicked the flame on, staring at it, then looking at Tooru's outstretched body, down his legs. Keiji reached down toward Tooru's calf, and let the bright white heat of the flame burn Tooru's leg hair.

Tooru yelped in surprise, and Keiji thought the sound made him sound a lot younger than he pretended to be.

"What the hell?" Tooru screeched. He sat up, resting on his heels, rubbing the mildly burnt skin. It only made it redder. His hair was burnt, black, now. The flame hadn't even touched the skin.

"Yeah," said Keiji, "We're even, now."

Tooru frowned at him.

"I don't want to do this anymore," Keiji said, and after a brief pause and directing his look towards Tooru's confused face, he clarified, "I decided to soften the blow with some light arson."

Tooru swallowed, Keiji saw his Adam's apple bob in the darkness. Keiji flicked the flame away.

"Okay," Tooru said weakly, as though he were not hurt, merely a little lost. It was the same tone of voice he used when Tetsuro came out, the first of their little group of friends. When Tetsuro uttered the words, Keiji was so happy he wasn't alone that he could have broken down into tears, then and there. Tooru merely stared at him, and then spoke in a questionable, doubtful tone, as though he couldn't quite believe it, and it was simply so like him.

"So— you don't want to fool around anymore, or what?" Tooru asked.

"Yeah," Keiji answered.

"Okay," Tooru repeated, and ran a hand through his hair, looking around Keiji's room aimlessly. Keiji fidgeted. He had hoped for a different reaction, he didn't even know _why_ he did, it wasn't like Keiji liked Tooru all that much, but _still_ —

"I just don't like you anymore," Keiji continued, he was babbling empty phrases, now, "You're a prick and—"

"Yeah, yeah," Tooru said quietly, and scratched his chin.

Keiji felt annoyance flicker in his stomach once more.

"Aren't you sad?" Keiji blurted.

He never figured out why he had asked that, when he _knew_ the answer, and he _knew_ what Tooru would respond with, and he _knew_ what it would make him feel—

Tooru laughed.

"Should I be?" Tooru said, "I mean, we're not— it's not like we're in _love_ , Keiji. We're fucking _mental_." He laughed again.

"Yeah," Keiji said, "Right— okay."

Tooru grinned, all straight and perfect and symmetrical.

Keiji felt alone, as though Tooru were here, yet at the same time, entirelydistant, in another world, even. He tightened his hold on his bed sheets, observing the fabric tighten beneath his fingers.

"Thank you," Keiji said as he observed Tooru shifting, standing up and searching for his sweater before finding it thrown haphazardly over Keiji's violin stand.

"For what?" Tooru asked as he pulled it over his head.

"For loving me."

Tooru ran a hand through his hair, again, a nervous habit. He exhaled shakily, and left.

Keiji swallowed thickly.

He reached for his phone, cold in the night, and scrolled through his contacts, only to realise that he had no one to call.

In the silence, he sighed before letting himself fall back onto his mattress, skin pale in the dim light shining through his windows and curtains, and he stared up at the remainders of the glow-in-the-dark stars that once shone from the ceiling, and he thought about when he removed them. He couldn't remember.

He didn't sleep well that night.

The next morning, he woke far too early for his liking. His mother had knocked on his door persistently. Keiji frowned as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and wondered why she hadn't simply come inside, and woke him up like other mothers do, lovingly, with a kiss to the forehead.

Instead, he heard his mother say, "Keiji, we're going out for a while, the parking permit needs renewal,", and in the distance, a moment later, the front door slam.

Keiji shifted his gaze to his right and stared at his phone screen once more. There were no notifications, yet he still took it with him as he, with an empty feeling boiling deep, deep inside him, it made him feel ill, slumped down the stairs, a little louder than necessary.

He was alone once more, and it felt utterly depressing the way he dragged himself into the kitchen, reached up for a bowl and frowned down at it once he realised it was dirty, then stretched to grab a second one and filled it with milk, bare feet tapping against the cold tiles, and then took a spoon and a box of cereal, pouring its interiors into the bowl.

"Okay," he spoke into the silence, "Alright."

He ate a spoonful of his breakfast and sliding on the tile, he moved himself into the living room, turning on the large television, draped himself on the sofa, and stopped switching lazily through the channels at an ocean documentary playing on National Geographic, one of those really corny ones.

"The ocean," the voiceover said with an innate sensationalism, "is six miles deep—"

"Huh," Keiji said to himself, "No _shit_."

His phone vibrated, once, then again— _Tetsuro_.

' _We're going out tonight,_ ' the message said, ' _Let's get shitfaced._ ', and then, ' _Don't u dare say u won't come, u fucker._ '

He must have heard he ended it with Tooru, Keiji thought, and then typed out a reply, smiling a little. Tetsuro was really too kind, and too good to be good for him, truthfully.

' _Yeah, okay,_ ' it said, ' _Buy me drinks and I'm yours._ '

In Keiji's experience, alcohol made everything slightly more exciting and incredible, and the warm feeling of anticipation starting in his stomach later that night, support his hypothesis once more. Tetsuro had led him to a small place, it was near the university and filled with students, and the walls were metal and grey, a little shiny, too, because the dark blue and blinding white lights, flickering around in tact with the deep, loud bass, a stinging sound, were reflected from them, seemingly trapped among the crowd of people.

It was nice, really, and Tetsuro sat down next to him, beer for himself and rum and coke for Keiji, and the way the lights were reflected off of Tetsuro's black jeans and t-shirt was nice, too, though it didn't make Keiji feel as nice as the way the guy sitting two, three seats down the bar was looking at him, at his hands and at his body, and at the way he fondled the straw of his drink a little too much.

Tetsuro turned his head and followed Keiji's stare.

He looked a little worn. His hair was messy, though not purposely so, and way he only had one shoe tied, and the way his friends had left him alone and not returned for a good half-hour, now. He was probably a university student, maybe even high-school, and for some reason, Keiji thought that the guy was everything he was _supposed_ to be. He seemed honest, and kind, and he had nice arms too, strong and muscular, maybe he was—

"Seriously?" Tetsuro said, " _Him_? That's one _hell_ of a downgrade from Tooru, man, and I never even _liked_ the guy that much."

"Why the past tense?" Keiji found himself asking, "He's not _dead_ or anything,"

"I know he's not dead, I use past tense because I want to _forget_ about him, man," Tetsuro responded, "I don't use past tense when I talk about dead people, at least, not those I want to remember— it's not like people are dead in the past, that they _were_ dead, once. If you die, it's permanent, man, and—"

The music drowned out the rest.

"Huh?" Keiji asked him.

"I said," he leaned closer and spoke into Keiji's ear over the loud, deep baseline, "You could do better. I know you could—"

Keiji snorted.

"You don't know me," he interrupted, "You never well."

Tetsuro tossed his head back and laughed.

"Fucking hell," he wheezed, "You're so full of shit, Keiji. What is this— an Indie film? Are you the depressing protagonist who will find a happy, cheerful counterpart through unusual circumstances? Am _I_ the quirky sidekick? _Jesus_ ,"

Keiji swallowed the rest of his drink.

"Come on," he said, "Buy me some shots and I'll ignore that comment."

Tetsuro grinned and called the bartender over, and a second later, Keiji found himself staring into a clear, empty shot-glass. He felt warm, and it was as though he saw everything that would happen next in slow motion.

The guy with the messy hair found himself walking towards him. Keiji's mouth opened slightly, and as he saw him standing directly in front of him, he wasn't sure he was breathing.

"Hey," the guy said, "What's your name?"

Keiji swallowed thickly.

"Tooru, Oikawa Tooru," he replied, and Tetsuro snorted beside him.

"Cool— I'm Koutarou," he said, and leaned forward towards him, "You're a student, yeah?"

"Yeah," Keiji replied.

"Thought so, I think I've seen you around before. So— do you want to dance with me?" he asked, and Keiji felt all the air in his lungs suddenly escape in an odd sigh of relief before nodding and letting Koutarou lead him to the dance floor. Keiji became anonymous amongst the crowd, and his eyes fluttered closed, shifting closer to Koutarou's broader, stronger body as the lights switched to a dark blue.

They could blame it all on the alcohol.

Keiji felt Koutarou's breath on his neck and heart pound hard and fast against his shoulder blade as he turned around, moving to the steady rhythm of the loud music, craning his neck to open his eyes and look into Koutarou's own. They seemed supernatural in the blue light, and Koutarou mustered him keenly, licking his lips.

It was sinful the way Keiji's hands found Koutarou's shoulders, basking in the feeling of his muscles moving underneath his fingertips, and Koutarou's palms fit over Keiji's hips, pulling him closer.

It didn't feel real— maybe that was what made everything slightly worse, in retrospect.

Koutarou leaned forward towards Keiji, and he could feel Keiji's soft, almost glowing in the light, hair and his breath on his neck, before it was replaced through warm and wet lips mouthing at his pulse point. Keiji had nothing to lose, truthfully— he'd left bruises and marks on Koutarou's skin, and he could feel his breath become shallower. Keiji grinned, and felt his own heart pounding, blood flowing to the beat of the music as Koutarou pulled him closer, even closer, shifting their hips together.

Keiji leaned his head back and shifted one of his hands to touch Koutarou's jaw, nails trailing and leaving marks. Koutarou grinned down at him, and then wrapped an arm around Keiji's shoulder, then held his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Keiji bent forwards, a little, and Koutarou leaned towards him.

They were close, now, so close they could feel each other's hot, damp breaths in the warm, moist air of the club.

"Hey," Koutarou whispered into Keiji's ear, "You're pretty, and I'm a little drunk. Is this okay?"

Keiji grinned.

"Yeah," he said, "You can do what you want."

Evidently, what Koutarou wanted was to kiss Keiji, hard, and a little sloppily, and Keiji didn't mind. It was nice— Keiji was sure he tasted of alcohol and cigarettes and entirely bitter, though if Koutarou minded, he didn't tell him. Instead, he pried Keiji's lips open with his own, a little chapped though full and warm, and slid his tongue inside, trailing along Keiji's teeth and along the roof of his mouth, then meeting Keiji's own, pushing against it, lazily.

When Keiji came home that night, he still felt Koutarou's lips against his own, and he remembered the way his grin looked in the blue lighting, and, as he stared up at those damn stains on his ceiling of where the stars once more, he realised with a crushing desperation that he didn't get Koutarou's number.

The next morning, his mother didn't question why he was so tired or why he was taking painkillers, or even where he'd gotten those marks on his neck from, and frowning, Keiji pulled a black turtleneck over his head and packed his violin and sheet-music. Sundays meant music school, and, as he picked up his bow and began playing, tuning his instrument under the gaze of his teacher, he thought of that damn blue light again.

"Keiji," his teacher interrupted, "You're audition for university is coming up soon. Are you practicing?"

"Yes," Keiji replied, "Of course."

"With metronome?"

He was silent.

He didn't want to tell her the truth, that his hobbies were fucking around with Tetsuro and his friends, in dark alleys, light arson, fucking around with boys he'd meet in clubs, fucking around with Tooru, at least, until recently, and _then_ playing violin, in that order.

"Keiji," his teacher sighed, "You're incredibly talented— you have a natural gift for rhythm and style and _music_ , and you have such potential in developing a truly unique and recognisable sound. I know you have other things on your mind, too, but please practice more. I know you love violin," she smiled a little, "Can you imagine doing anything else in the future?"

Keiji couldn't.

He ended up practicing those next weeks a lot more— even Tetsuro noticed, and as he sat in his room upstairs, hunched over chemistry questions whilst Keiji's fingers stretched and raced along the instrument, he asked, "Are you nervous?"

Keiji's movements halted.

"Yeah," he said quietly, "I am."

Tetsuro nodded.

"When's the audition?" he asked.

"This Thursday," Keiji answered.

"Okay," he replied, "I'll try and come, alright?"

Keiji nodded, and it was silent for a moment.

"Hey," Tetsuro said, "Have you— you've thought about this, haven't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean— I know you always tend to follow the current, and see where life leads you. You do this weird thing where you see everything as disconnected from other things that have happened," he grinned, "I know you do that. I think it's kind of shit, really."

Keiji frowned.

"I just want you to be happy, man," Tetsuro continued, "You've been saying you want to be a violinist for a really long time. Are you sure nothing has changed? This ain't some etch-a-sketch— this is one doodle that can't be undid."

Keiji halted his movements.

"Yes," he said, "I'm sure. I want to do this."

Keiji wasn't so sure of his words that Thursday, when he was repeatedly closing his eyes, trying to regulate his pulse and stop his hands from sweating and shaking. His parents were in the audience— Tetsuro couldn't make it, he had an entrance exam the same day and it coincided with the audition.

Keiji exhaled shakily. He turned to his left, and his teacher stared at him, biting her lip, before exhaling herself once more. She nodded, then reached towards him and placed her palms on his shoulders.

"Listen," she said, "You're the best student I ever had. If you can't do this, no one can. Alright?"

Keiji was silent.

"Alright, Keiji?" she repeated.

He nodded weakly, and then was ushered onto the stage.

His hands were shaking, and the auditorium was silent, aside from his echoing footsteps. The stage lights blinded him a little.

He flexed his hands once more, and wiped them on his trousers, breath shaking as he adjusted his bow and stared up at the ceiling, then positioned his violin, and exhaled, one final time, before playing. His fingers were mechanical— practiced, calm, precise, and his body moved slightly with each crescendo, in waves, and then, all at once, he closed his eyes and forgot where he was, transcendent.

It was over before he knew it.

He removed his bow and stared at the jury, and then at the audience. His mother was crying a little. His shoulders were heaving.

It was _over_.

Keiji felt a little lifeless, after that, and numb. He walked off the stage, and behind the curtains, his teacher was sobbing.

Keiji didn't cry.

He didn't even cry when he received the letter of acceptance either.

The only thing on his mind was those blue lights and Koutarou, and they way Tooru looked at him when he left his place that day, and the way Tetsuro looked at Kenma all that time ago.

Keiji remembered the tone of voice that guy had on the National Geographic channel— _the ocean is six miles deep—_

The next morning his mother was still grinning, and saying how proud she was. Keiji, like any child, did the obvious thing to do when parents express their joy at their offspring— he asked whether he could invite some friends over next Saturday night. His mother froze, briefly, and then laughed and said that he could, _of course_ he could, so long as all of Keiji's friends would take off their shoes when they came inside, the carpet was new.

They didn't.

Breaking that rule made Keiji grin more than breaking all the others, such as buzzing in Kenji, who laughed and held up a plastic bag filled with weed and skins. His parents hated Kenji. It made Keiji like him more.

It was nice, their little get-together, sprawling over Keiji's bedroom floor. Even Iwaizumi was nice, Keiji thought, and if it weren't for the feeling of sheer loneliness, not even envy, that resulted when Tooru exhaled his smoke into Iwaizumi's mouth.

Tooru had repeated the motion with Keiji multiple times after that— just to fuck with Keiji. Keiji let him— just to fuck with Tooru.

Keiji told himself that was the reason he let Tooru trail his fingers over his wrist, later, for the same reason.

"Hey," Keiji whispered into Tooru's ear, "My parents are away, and they won't come until tomorrow morning. You could stay, if you want."

The words were heavy, and Tooru grinned and nodded.

"Yeah," he answered, "Okay."

It was a horrible idea, in retrospect, although it didn't feel that horrible when Keiji led him downstairs into his refurnished basement, with that crème sofa that invitingly hid any stains of all bodily fluids, and Tooru pushed him down and kissed him, long and hard. Keiji wondered whether Tooru was thinking of someone else, the way he kissed was so endearing and loving it _hurt_.

"Ah," Tooru gasped, later, when Keiji dug his teeth into his shoulder, "Haj— _Keiji_." He moaned.

Keiji blinked, and felt his face fall.

He could have stopped, pushed himself off of Tooru and asked him what the hell was wrong with him, and what he was doing, and if he had goddamn feelings for someone else why he was fooling around with Keiji, when upstairs, unknown to him, one Iwaizumi Hajime was feeling sick to his stomach with worry and misplaced annoyance.

He didn't though— Keiji gave Tooru a half-assed hand job, and Tooru blew him later. Keiji closed his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, distant, and he thought about the stars on his bedroom ceiling and the blue light and that guy from the club. He'd forgotten his name.

Keiji didn't ask Tooru about Hajime after that incident. He didn't really care, he didn't want to get involved and, most of all, he didn't want Tooru to fuck Hajime up.

Tooru fucked people up a lot, he fucked with them and he fucked them.

Keiji met Tooru again the next week, on Saturday, again, at Tadashi's. He couldn't stop staring at Hajime, Keiji noticed, and it was sort of sweet, and the way Tooru had brought a damn cake – _he must have seen it in some sort of dumb film_ — was also sort of sweet.

"Let's go camping," Tetsuro said, later, when it was completely dark out, "In the summer— all of us, and Kenma and Tsukkishima and, _God_ , I'll even invite Tanaka, that kid never give back any of the pencils I keep borrowing him in English class."

Kenji laughed, and said that he could drive them.

Tooru said he had a tent— "No, you don't," said Akaashi, "Yes, I do," said Tooru— and that they could all share it together, and swim in the sea and barbeque on the sand.

Keiji told Tooru to stop lying, an empty and vague suggestion, not even a threat. Tetsuro whined in between them, telling them to stop arguing. Tadashi giggled, widely enthusiastic, and it was a nice sound.

Keiji came over to Tooru's, that night, and Tooru was passive. He'd put on some music, loud, it was the Arctic Monkeys, or something else, mindlessly droning on as an alibi of some sorts. Tooru let himself flop down on his bed, and let Keiji sit in his lap and finger himself over his thighs, and he just _looked_ at him.

Keiji came first, that night, and when Keiji frowned and asked whether Tooru wanted him to blow him, or something, Tooru licked his lips and said no, he was fine. They stared at each other for a while, and the Alex Turner belted out another lyrics before the music stilled, and it was silent, for while.

Keiji wasn't breathing at this point.

"Hey," Tooru asked, after a while, sitting up on his elbows, "Did you get in?"

"Huh?" Keiji asked, dumbly.

"Music school— did you get in?"

"Yeah," Keiji replied, "Yeah— I did." He wasn't sure why he sounded so questionable.

"That's good."

"It is."

It was silent once more.

"Hey," Keiji said slowly, "You know— I don't think Iwaizumi's really just your neighbour."

Tooru blinked at him, and then laughed, just once.

"Why— what make you say that?"

Keiji chewed the inside of his cheek, and balled the hands, still resting on Tooru's chest, into loose fists.

"You know what makes me say it," Keiji said, "Tooru— we're going to different universities, soon, in a couple of months."

Tooru blinked.

"I don't think—"

"Are you breaking up with me?" Tooru blurted.

Keiji froze.

"I… I already did." He said.

"What?" Tooru asked, " _When_?"

"I said that I didn't want to fool around anymore," Keiji said, "Ages ago— and besides, you can't breakup with someone you never _dated_."

"Who says that?" Tooru grinned, "Come on, don't—"

"Fucking hell," Keiji groaned, "I'm tired of this. I don't even _like_ you. No one does— not me, Tetsuro, _anyone_. Even Iwaizumi's probably fucking pissed as hell at you, because you're fucking _annoying_ ," he could feel his voice raise, "You think you're some big mystery that everyone wants to solve when in reality, you're a mess, and it's starting to piss everybody off!"

Keiji's breaths were heaving, and he stared down at Tooru.

"Hey, Keiji," Tooru said, with a perfect grin, "Did you know that every time you speak, little flecks of spit fly out of your mouth—"

Keiji slapped him.

It was probably the wrong decision, but he did it.

"God," Keiji said, "You're such an _asshole_."

He didn't slam the door on his way out. He knew it would bring him greater satisfaction to know that later, Tooru would have to get up and close it himself.

It didn't bring as much satisfaction as he hoped it would.

He cried, a little, on the train home, though not because of Tooru, but because he was a little drunk, and lonely.

"Hey," he asked the middle-aged woman sitting across from him, as he stared out of the window, "You now those ducks in that lagoon in that park? That little lake? By any chance, do you happen to know where they go, the ducks, when it gets all frozen over?"

She looked at him like he was a madman.

"What're you trying to do, buddy?" she said, "Are you kidding?"

"No— I was just wondering."

She didn't say anything more, and Keiji didn't, either.

He didn't find an answer to that question, even when he came home and closed his door and had a satisfying cry, alone, in the dark, and texted Tetsuro and then months later, when he found out Tetsuro was going aboard and Keiji had to pretend to be happy for him, _only_ happy for him, and not selfishly feeling completely alone.

The pinnacle of his loneliness was seven weeks into his first year of university, when, after class, he scrolled through his contacts on his phone and realised, for the second time in his life, that he had absolutely no one to call.

In the end, it took half a year of university and damn _cellists_ for Keiji to no longer feel quite as lonely.

It was a Wednesday morning, and Keiji was in the practice room, alone, because it was still earl y in the morning and most of the other musicians had theory, including those damn cellists. The cellists were the worst, Keiji thought, because he could sometimes sneakily play his violin in his dorm, his RA wasn't too strict, but cellos were larger, that was always an excuse, and louder and the those damn cellists always, _always_ bribed Keiji to allow them to practice instead, and Akaashi Keiji was _weak_. Usually it was in the form of food, Keiji drew the line when a shaky first year offered him money, his teacher got mad at him for not practicing enough with metronome, he was too chaotic and expressive, and Keiji swallowed thickly and stared at the tears in his eyes and nodded. He let him have the practice room that day.

That Wednesday, though, Keiji was alone, and it was nice— it was too early for anyone else to be there, he had to plan around the cellists. He was focused on the sheet music in front of him, and his fingers were doing that mechanical motion once more. His hair was a little long, now, and it fell into his eyes, yet even Keiji thought that he sounded pretty damn good, passionate and a little too loud, maybe.

He knew the door couldn't contain the sounds of his bow gracing the strings, again and again, faster and faster until—

There was a man staring at him, through the glass window of the door.

Keiji stopped.

"What class is this?" the guy said. He was dishevelled , and his eyes were wide and honest. His grin made Keiji feel as though at that moment, there was no one else he wanted to see as much as Keiji himself. One of his shoes was untied, and he was wearing a stained sweater, a little large, though maybe his shoulders were just that broad, strong and muscular.

"Advanced composition," he answered.

The guy nodded.

"You're the only person in the class?"

"No," Keiji answered.

It was silent for a moment.

"So," he replied, shifting his grip on his backpack, "What are you doing?"

"I'm— more advanced." Keiji said.

"Hey," said the guy, "I know you from somewhere."

Keiji felt the back of her neck prickle with an eerily familiar sensation.

"No," he replied, "You don't."

He laughed, then said, "Nah, I'm pretty sure we've met before. What's your name?"

Keiji swallowed.

"Akaashi Keiji," he answered.

The guy smiled, impossibly so.

"Nice to meet you," he laughed a little, "I'm Koutarou."

 _Shit._

He remembered the name of the guy in the club with the blue lighting.

Keiji damn near dropped his violin onto the floor.

Koutarou kept smiling at him.

As his life was falling apart, Keiji thought of Shimizu, and what she used to tell the others. She read it somewhere, and she thought it made her seem smart, and so she repeated it a lot: Kindness eases change.

Keiji never understood what she meant, really, but in that moment, the only thing he could think of were blue lights and Koutarou's untied shoe, and where the ducks go when the pond freezes over.

"Sorry," Koutarou said, "I didn't mean to disturb you. It's just, I'm a first year," he laughed, a little strained, "I'm pretty bored, and lonely, most of the time. Can I sit?" he asked, taking a seat next to Keiji before he could reply. Keiji nodded vaguely.

"Yeah," he replied, "Sure."

"Hey," Koutarou continued, "You're a music major, right?"

Keiji nodded once more.

"That's cool," Koutarou said, and he ran a hand through his hair, laughing a little at himself, it seemed.

Keiji bit the side of his lip.

"What do you major in?" he heard himself ask.

"I'm a little undecided," Koutarou replied, "I take some classes in psychology, some in literature, and even gender studies. It's pretty interesting," he said, "A little breadless, but interesting."

Keiji shrugged.

"Not really," he said, "It depends what you do with your degree."

Koutarou nodded, and it was silent.

"So," Koutarou said, elongating the syllable, "Do you— are you doing anything later today?"

Keiji frowned.

"Not really," he answered. He wasn't sure why he was being so damn honest, when he'd lied to Koutarou before, and done nothing but lie to him, along with allow him to grind up against him, in a club, all those months ago—

"Okay," Koutarou said, "Hey, want to do something together?"

Keiji blinked at him.

"I mean," Koutarou stammered, "You don't have to. Shit, I'm sorry— I'm really sorry, God— I'm making you uncomfortable—"

"It's fine," Keiji interrupted, "It's— fine."

"Okay," he replied weakly, "Do you maybe want to— want to come over, or something? Watch a movie, maybe?"

"Yeah," Keiji found himself say, "Sure."

The grin Koutarou gave him was a good enough reason for Keiji to show up in front of Koutarou's dorm that evening. It was dark out, and Keiji had smoked half a pack of cigarettes on his way, he was so damn nervous.

"Hey," he said when Koutarou opened the door and grinned at him. Keiji felt his chest constrain when he saw the look of sheer surprise and joy on Koutarou's face, as though Keiji were the best damn thing he'd seen in a long, long time, though Keiji couldn't understand why. He was a mess. His hair was dark and a little longer than he usually kept it, and he wore all black, head to toe, laundry was easier, that way. His combat boots were dirty, and he smelt like a Victorian chimney. Koutarou, on the other hand, seemed purer, innocent, and holy and _kind_ , really, _nice_ , like a dandelion, or something.

"Hi," Koutarou said, "Come on in, dude."

Keiji nodded, and stepped inside. It didn't look much different than his own dorm, really, covered in dark blue and a hideous shade of beige, though Koutarou didn't have as many posters as Keiji did, and he had a lot of books. Keiji trailed his finger along the bookcase, collecting the dust.

"Sorry," Koutarou said, "God, I'm so sorry— it's really dusty, even though I _do_ clean, I swear I do, I don't know where it comes from," Keiji grinned a little at Koutarou's distress, "Sorry," he finished weakly, and it was almost a whisper.

"It's okay," Keiji said, turning to face him, "It's fine." Koutarou nodded, once, then twice.

"Do you want something to drink?" Koutarou asked, gesturing to the mini-fridge in the corner.

Keiji nodded, and Koutarou crouched to open it and peer inside.

"I didn't know that was even allowed," Keiji muttered.

"It's not," Koutarou said, "I bribed my RA with a fuck-ton donuts," Keiji smiled in response, "So, we've got one old can of Coke and Heineken, Corona— anything your heart desires."

"Heineken," Keiji said, and Koutarou opened two bottles, passing one to Keiji, and they sat down on his bed, wall against their backs.

"Do you want to watch something?" Koutarou asked. Keiji stared at him, head remaining forwards. Their thighs were touching, and Keiji felt as though he had far more to drink than not even half a bottle of cold beer, because Koutarou was seething and burning into his skin, and the touch was incredibly warm, even through the two layers of denim of the jeans. Keiji wondered what his skin would feel like, probably soft, and comforting, and simply _nice_ —

He tore his gaze away and stared up at the ceiling.

He felt his breath halt in his throat.

"Hey," he jostled Koutarou with his elbow and pointed up, "What are those?"

Koutarou blinked at him, then his gaze followed the direction of his arm. He laughed weakly.

"Oh," he said, "Those are— those were there before I came here. I— They're stars. They glow in the dark."

Keiji swallowed.

"Yeah," he said.

Koutarou was silent for a moment.

"I lied," he said quietly, "I glued them up there. Dumb, huh?"

"Not really," Keiji replied, in a whisper, "I like them."

"Yeah?" Koutarou answered, as though he simply could not believe him. The way he looked at Keiji, face so close he could almost feel his breath, made Keiji feel as though he were impossible, something magnificent and imaginary that Koutarou only ever dreamt of— maybe he did, just like Keiji did, those months ago after the incident in the club.

"Yeah," Keiji said, and angled his head closer, eyes fixated on Koutarou's jaw and lips, "a lot."

Koutarou nodded a little, and then it was his turn to swallow thickly. Keiji could see his throat bob.

"I remember where I know you from," Koutarou hushed, he was impossibly close to Keiji, now, "'Sinful Sundays' at Passage, yeah? In Tokyo, about a year ago? I bought you a drink, and then we—"

Keiji froze, and he almost dropped his damn beer.

He interrupted, "No— you don't, you're mistaken—"

"I know you lied to me, you said your name was something else," Koutarou continued, and Keiji was prepared to have Koutarou force himself onto him, or punch him, and Keiji would have to hit him back, but that wouldn't work, because Koutarou was so much stronger than him, so maybe Keiji would just dig out his lighter and set his hair on fire, or something.

"I don't really care, it doesn't matter to me," Koutarou said, "It's in the past, though I just wanted to clear that up, I mean, if we're gonna be friends—"

"Friends?" Keiji asked.

"Yeah," Koutarou stated, tone without dubious, "Friends."

Keiji took a long drink of his beer.

"I don't really have friends," he said quietly.

"Well," Koutarou replied, smiling a little, "I don't either, so that's already one common interest. Why don't you tell me another?"

Keiji shrugged.

"I like setting things on fire," he said, "and industrial estates."

Koutarou blinked at him.

"Okay," he said after a while, smiling nervously, "That's cool, I should take you to one I know tomorrow, for some quality one-on-one time."

Keiji didn't come back to his own dorm that night. They talked for five hours.

Keiji stayed the night at Koutarou's, wrapped in his arms. He drooled a little in his sleep, and when Keiji woke up that morning, he thought about the dust in Koutarou's room and the impossibility of their situation, and they feeling of his heart beating faster when he realised he didn't _want_ to leave— he wanted to stay here, and keep talking about Koutarou's childhood pet, a damn turtle he named after this annoying guy in his algebra class— ' _Tobio,' 'Like the fish?' 'Yep,'_ — and Keiji told him about Tooru and why he told Koutarou his name was Tooru when it wasn't— _'You'd fucking hate that guy, Koutarou, I swear to—' 'Yeah, he sounds like a dick,'_ — and why Koutarou lied to him, too, that night in the club— ' _I'm not actually, like, three years older than you— I'm a first year, too— I just said that to impress you, and I thought you were in college, then,'_ — and it was nice, really _nice_.

Keiji was honest, and he spoke the truth, and he left Koutarou's that morning with a promise to meet again and a new contact in his phone. They ended up meeting the next day. Koutarou came over to the practice room again, and he watched Keiji through the window for a long while before Keiji exhaled and finished his piece, tearing his eyes away from the sheet music and look back at Koutarou, who flinched behind the glass and gave a little wave, then came inside and sat there, watching Keiji practice. He did that nearly every day, sometimes with an excuse of ' _I had a class in this building,_ ', even though it was the music faculty and Koutarou didn't have a single lecture remotely near the practice room.

Koutarou always just sat there, silent, and watching him. Keiji found it good practice to play under somebody else's watchful gaze, because it made him nervous, and he was never good at performing in front of an audience, but now he could ease himself into that. Koutarou didn't care what he played, even if it was the same piece, over and over again, or a simple fingering exercise. Keiji thought at first he had some weird fetish about hands and fingers, because he knew he had nice ones, long and pale, he was a musician, part of the requirements, his teacher always told him. After the third time Koutarou sat there, Keiji thought it was therapeutic for him, because he was completely silent. He never made a joke about fingering, either— the only time he spoke was when Keiji asked him something, such as whether he thought the piece was too fast or too slow, too loud or too quiet, and then Koutarou would simply lick him lips and stare at Keiji, before saying ' _It's perfect, really_ ,'.

Koutarou wasn't one for constructive criticism, though he was kind, and patient, and fun to be around. He listened to Keiji complain about cellists. Keiji listened to him complain about RA.

Koutarou took Keiji out to an industrial estate once, by the river, and it was nice. Koutarou liked to spray things, he had stencils and all, and he was pretty good at it, spraying little patterns and cartoon figures on abandoned buildings while Keiji set things on fire. Koutarou had brought sparklers and fireworks too, and Keiji thought of Tadashi's party and the roof, and when he looked at the brilliant grin on Koutarou's face, he thought it was far nicer than Tooru's smiles ever were.

Keiji no longer felt as lonely as he had before. He didn't want a cigarette that often, either.

The next time he even considered smoking was when Koutarou asked him whether he was free the next afternoon, to do something, because he thought Keiji was ' _cool_ ,'. Keiji wondered what that really meant, and then he thought about the dust in Koutarou's bedroom, and how it got there, and why his hair was like that— did he dye it once and immediately regret it?

They ended up in a park, although Koutarou promised he would take Keiji out to an industrial estate the next time. Keiji pretended his pulse didn't become rapid when Koutarou promised him a next time, again.

Sitting on a bench, Koutarou was feeding some ducks whilst Keiji was smoking, he was so damn nervous, and he didn't even know why, after all, maybe Koutarou was only doing this to fuck with Keiji, or in efforts to fuck Keiji, though that wasn't a horrible thought, really, and besides, when Keiji looked to his side and saw that grin on Koutarou's face while he was feeding the ducks, all he thought about was how happy it made him. It was so pure, and Keiji was so damn happy himself that he nearly cried.

"Hey," Keiji found himself saying as he stubbed out his cigarette, even though it wasn't even half-done, "Do you know where the ducks go, when it all freezes over?"

Koutarou turned his head to look at Keiji, and he grinned.

"Nah," he said, "But they're fine, aren't they? It all works out, in the end."

Keiji felt a little lightheaded after that, he was worried he was going to vomit.

"Hey," Keiji said after a moment, "This guy I know— a cellist in my advanced composition class— he's having this party this Friday."

"Yeah?" Koutarou asked.

"Yeah," he answered, "Do you want to come?"

"With you?"

"Yeah," Keiji repeated, "with me."

Koutarou grinned, and agreed, and, come Friday night, Keiji picked Koutarou up from his dorm and, after some lazy pre-drinking, courteously of Koutarou's mini-fridge, they arrived at the cellist's dingy apartment.

"Hey," he said, "Keiji, you actually came!"

"Don't be so surprised," Keiji frowned, "Shouyou, Koutarou— Koutarou, Shouyou," he nodded towards him lazily, before grabbing Koutarou's wrist, dragging him inside and towards the kitchen, Hinata waved at him, and Koutarou laughed a little at Keiji's insistence.

"You're so possessive when you're drunk," he laughed, "I love it."

Keiji frowned and sat up against the kitchen counter, pushing Koutarou closer towards him, hand still closed around Koutarou's wrist. Koutarou stared down at it, and then at their legs touching, and he felt warm.

"Hey," Keiji whispered, "Mix me a drink, yeah?"

Koutarou nodded, and retracted in order to open the fridge and some cabinets, and Keiji lit a cigarette, fanning the smoke everywhere, as a payback for Shouyou's loud instrument taking up the practice room ever so often.

Koutarou poured Keiji a rum and Coke, and opened a bottle of beer for himself, toasting to Keiji before drinking a large sip and moving closer towards him, again, with minimal grace. He spilt a little of the beer on Keiji's black jeans.

Keiji laughed, deep and rich, and throwing his head back. Koutarou let his palms rest against the counter, closing in on Keiji and wrapping him in the warmth of his body and the smell of beer from his breath.

"Are you clumsy with everything?" Keiji teased.

"Nah," Koutarou grinned, "Just with my mouth."

Keiji's lips parted on breath, and they stayed like that for beat.

"Not— not like _that_ ," Koutarou stammered, "Words— I meant _words_. God, Keiji," he slumped against Keiji's shoulder, resting his forehead there and fanning his hot breath against Keiji's collar and neck, "Why do you always make me say dumb things?"

Keiji giggled— he was too drunk to care.

Koutarou sighed blissfully.

"That sounds even better than I imagined," he said, "and I didn't even think that was possible— _God_ , Keiji," he said again, and before Keiji could question what he meant, he felt Koutarou remove his head from Keiji's shoulder and chest, and stare at him.

"You've been thinking about me, Koutarou?" Keiji said slowly, voice barely above a whisper, and if Koutarou wouldn't have been so damn close, Keiji doubted he would have heard him over the noise of the party.

"Yeah," he said, " _Loads_ — probably more than I should have." He grinned lopsidedly, and Keiji gave him a tiny smile, dropping the hold on his drink and cigarette, and instead dragging a hand through Koutarou's hair. It was soft, incredibly so, and it felt _right_.

"Is this okay?" Koutarou asked, voice low.

"Yeah," Keiji responded, and let Koutarou close the distance between them. It was slow, and it wasn't much, really— Koutarou brushed his lower lip gently against his before sealing them around Keiji's top lip, sweet and curious, so gentle it _hurt_. The feeling of the slightly calloused flesh of Koutarou's thumb brushing against his jaw and cheek, hand cupping his face, his other palm trailing up Keiji's back and under his t-shirt, cause goose-bumps to rise on his skin.

Koutarou pulled back, though, a moment later, and looked at him with hazy eyes.

"I want to take a photograph," Koutarou said, wistfully, words slurring, "Of us, mid-embrace, so that when I'm old and alone I'll remember than I once held something truly beautiful."

Keiji giggled again, hiding his head in Koutarou's shoulder, soft and warm, and Koutarou kissed his cheek, sloppily, a little too wet, and hugged him, tightly.

Keiji thought of the frail dust that trailed in the wake of Koutarou's bedroom, and, when Koutarou took him back to his that night, after stopping at Mc Donald's, he didn't stare up at the stars on his ceiling, and instead, let his hands desperately grab onto Koutarou, as though he were afraid he would disappear for years again if he didn't.

Koutarou reached closer to him, pressed his chest against Keiji's, impossibly close, and for a moment, they just lay there, holding each other.

"I'm really glad I met you," Keiji whispered.

Koutarou felt his breath hitch.

"Me too," he said, smiling gently, "I'm really, really happy right now."

Keiji grinned back at him, and Koutarou sighed and hugged him one last time before tearing himself away, just a little, in order to kiss him again, slow and deep, and that was alright, because they only broke apart in order to remove their shirts and then, a while later, Keiji's jeans and then Koutarou's, too, and Keiji showered Koutarou in kisses, everywhere he could reach, hands never leaving Koutarou's skin, and never stopping.. He trailed his fingers over his shoulders, neck, chest, and Keiji didn't know what overcame him, but in that moment, he couldn't think of anything other to say other than breathing Koutarou's name over his skin. He was worried he might cry, he was so damn happy.

Koutarou laughed a little when Keiji's fingers touched his sides, he was ticklish, and Keiji felt his chest tighten at the sound.

"Hey," Koutarou said a little later, resting his forehead against Keiji's as Keiji ran his fingers through his hair, "I want to touch you— is that okay?"

Keiji nodded, and then vocalized in a fragmented, fragile and impossibly quiet tone, "Yeah," before pulling Koutarou down into a long kiss, rutting up against him. Both of them came embarrassingly fast, though Keiji didn't mind, not when, in the afterglow, Koutarou looked so damn happy in the moonlight, and Keiji was worried all over again that he might vomit, or cry, or do both at the same time.

He was staring down at him, lying next to him and resting on his elbows, propped a little sideways to look at Koutarou, who lay on his back and looked back at him, too, hand reaching up to play with his hair again. Keiji smiled, and it was too damn sappy, but it made Keiji's heart feel warm and his fingers tingle, and suddenly, he didn't feel so nervous anymore. He was calm, and he rested his palm of Koutarou's chest, drawing nonsense patterns.

"Hey," Koutarou asked, voice rough and low, almost whispering, "Play me."

"What?"

"I want you to play me like a violin."

Keiji felt his breath halt. He ran his fingers up and down the span of Koutarou's chest, focusing on the sinews of the muscles, assigning each of them a string. He traced them, up and down, with the tips of his fingers, and Koutarou was quiet, as though he were focusing and concentrating on Keiji. Keiji pressed down, where he imagined the strings were, and tapped them in that mechanical way of his, lightly at first, but then with more force, and when Keiji looked at Koutarou's face again, he felt a surge of lust and love. Koutarou was smiling that way again, as though he were absolutely positively biased in your favour, as though Keiji were a miracle.

"Why?" Keiji found himself asking, "Why me?"

Koutarou blinked at him.

"What do you mean?" Koutarou asked, smile faltering, "Are you asking why I'm doing this? Why I talked to you in the practice room, or at the club?"

"Everything," Keiji hushed.

Koutarou exhaled.

"I really, really like you— when I saw you at the club, I thought you were beautiful, not just _super_ hot— which you are, don't get me wrong— but also, something more. I wanted to know you, all of you, the good and the not so good," Koutarou was blushing, now, "You're so lovely, Keiji— I've never seen anyone get into music as much as you do," Koutarou said, "It's why I like to watch you practice. You get the cutest crease in your forehead, right there," He touched the bridge of Keiji's nose, "I love that. You know, when you play, you seem so distant. You get transported to a different place, different from here, maybe in the past. You do this thing were you just keeping hanging onto a fragment of a different time, never in the present, and that's alright, because sometimes, I feel like you deserve _better_ — like you don't quite belong here, but somewhere better than my stupid dorm or a practice room filled with damn cellists," he continued, "It's really— lovely. It's lovely that you're here, that you choose to be here, out of all the places in the world. You're so lovely, Keiji."

Keiji had never been called lovely before, and he felt heat flood his neck, staring at the hand on Koutarou's chest.

His eyes flickered upwards. Koutarou was there waiting for him.

The next morning, when Keiji woke in Koutarou's arms again, he didn't think about his hangover, or classes, or damn cellists, not about anything but the warmth and comfort of Koutarou's steady breathing.

For the first time in many years, he didn't think that there would never be enough love and wealth in this world because every time we get what we thought we wanted we realise that we want more because what we really want is to go back in time— to some place where we felt safe, when we were happy and pure and innocent.

He didn't think that because he was happy, _now_.

He just closed his eyes and let Koutarou play with his hair, and later Keiji stared into his eyes for hours, it seemed, and then, after Koutarou made him waffles in the secret toaster he hid from his RA, Keiji couldn't contain his dumb grins and laughter, and the look of awe Koutarou gave him made Keiji feel as though it were alright to do things like that, with Koutarou, to be in the present moment and no longer worry about where the ducks go when it all freezes over.

Koutarou had this smile that made you feel as though he were irresponsibly prejudiced in your favour, and Keiji felt as though he could do anything, if he could just run fast enough, stretch out his arms further, then one fine morning—

He knew what happened to the ducks when it all freezes over— they migrate, fly to a warmer place until it's time for them to return.

He heard that the first time when Koutarou was over at his place, a year later, when he had gotten his own tiny flat, making out sloppily on his sofa, Keiji underneath Koutarou, who was lazily sweeping and swirling his tongue around Keiji's own, as though he wanted to memorise him. Koutarou froze when he heard the National Geographic guy announce it, and pulled away, slowly, before grinning.

"See? That's not so bad," Koutarou said, "I told you it all works out, in the end."

Keiji agreed.


End file.
